


Midnatt

by Kissing_Toast



Series: A Liar's Game [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Arguments, Dean Winchester is John's Good Little Soldier, Gen, Headcanon, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Sam Winchester is So Done, Stanford Angst, Teenchesters, case fic (kind of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25344958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissing_Toast/pseuds/Kissing_Toast
Summary: All those midnight moments.A collection of one shots, glimpses into pre-series and series events, liberally sprinkled with headcanon but still canon compliant.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: A Liar's Game [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739719
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Tarmac

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be adding short fics to this as I write them. Each chapter is a stand-alone one-shot. Rating is due to use of strong language, the fics will mostly be G-rated.

They’re on an unnamed stretch of blacktop in northeast New Mexico. Dean's been speeding for the last 50 miles and shows no intention of slowing down as they hit the Colorado border. Dad called and told them to haul ass to Nebraska. Judging by Dean's reaction it's something serious, though he hasn't enlightened Sam as to what kind of serious since hitting the road. At least he made Dad swear to call the school in the morning and sort out Sam's absence.

“And you didn't even think to ask him what was going on?” Sam rages for the third time, feeling as petulant as he sounds.

“I already told you, I could hear it in his voice. He needs our help!” Dean shoots back just as vehemently.

“Fuck's sake, Dean, it's my senior year! All I want is to finish out the last semester in one god damn place.” Sam punctuates that with a sigh. This argument isn't new, having it with Dean is; usually it's Dad Sam's trying to convince, the thought that his brother might change sides this late in the game never even entered his mind. It kills some small hopeful part of Sam's soul.

When Dean doesn't answer Sam expostulates further, needing to purge all the points of contention he has against his father while he's still fuming.

“He doesn't even care how bad it looks that I've changed schools so much. He just wants me to fall in line like _you_!” Admittedly he spits that last bit a tad callously, but he's so angry right now. He had his hopes set on staying at Forbes High until at least the spring. Hoped to have some consistency backing his college applications. These last three weeks had been wonderfully calm; Dean working a part time gig, Sam going to school like a normal kid - he's enjoyed it, had broached the subject of staying put to John, in the hopes that he could ride out the last months of school in one place and then he'd be free to go to college and get away from his overbearing father and equally overprotective brother.

Why couldn't Dad just let him be, stop trying to make him into a mindlessly obedient soldier like Dean. Why couldn't he see that Sam wanted much more than this nomadic, tragic, and lonely existence? Vengeance fueled Dad's every whim, along with a healthy dose of machismo and hard liquor. Dean became more like John Jr. for every year that passed and Sam hated it. Hated that his big brother wasn't on his side any longer, spent more time honing his skills and less time with Sam. Most of all Sam hated the fear he felt at broaching the subject of college again. The last time he'd mentioned it to his brother Dean had scoffed and explained that Sam had more important things to be doing than matriculating. He used harsher words, but that was the gist of it.

“I just don't understand why I couldn't have stayed behind.” Sam continues mollifyingly, but Dean stares straight ahead, gripping the wheel hard.

The silence stretches between them. Perhaps Sam overstepped this time, said something that Dean can't forgive. So he stares out the window at the complete black surrounding them and lets Dean stew, he'll calm down eventually. The glowing dials on his watch tell him it's seven minutes past midnight and Sam's sure of one thing: it's going to be a long drive.


	2. Town With No Name

The motel room reeks of greasy take out and spilled beer. It almost veils the funky smell embedded in the carpet, the mattresses; as far as crummy motels go this one is exceptionally grim.

Four hours since Dad handed Dean the key and reiterated his expectation for Dean to keep his brother safe. Dean knows the speech backwards and forwards, is sick of hearing it because it sounds like lip service coming from Dad, but for Dean it’s as natural as breathing. Four hours and Dean's climbing the walls. Sam opened his History textbook after dumping his duffel on the bed and continued writing the essay he was supposed to hand in next week to Mrs. Arbour. That was 500 miles ago in Indiana. Now they’re stuck in Who-Cares, Arkansas, a town so small Dean could probably see the leaving town sign if he stood on the roof.

He looks at the clock, 11.53 pm. Nothing to do, nowhere to go; he hasn’t even heard a car drive by in two hours, and they’re on the main drag. The scratch of Sam’s No. 2 pencil is nattering away inside his skull. It makes his ears itch.

He looks at the clock again, 11.57, and suddenly the minutes feel like they’re ticking down to doomsday, summoning some great disaster.

“You gonna keep writing all night?” He asks Sam.

His brother just grunts in the affirmative, apparently in one of his “too cool for this family” moods, so Dean turns on the television. Four channels of static, one Seinfeld rerun and the credits for an unnamed movie. He flips it off with a sigh. From the corner of his eye he sees Sam shake his head, frown.

Again he checks the time, midnight, and the overwhelming need to get out of this motel prison gives him gooseflesh. They’ve been moving around too much lately, too often. Dean hasn’t made a single tenuous friend in the last six months, hasn’t managed to charm any small town cheerleaders either. Sam’s pissy attitude has been growing in time with his ever increasing height, and he hasn’t said anything more substantial than “yes sir” to Dad in weeks.

“Yo, nerd boy! You almost done?”

Sam sighs curtly. “One more page, Dean,” he says without looking up.

Dean waits silently till the count of thirty, then begins blowing raspberries, anything to drown out the infernal scratch of that pencil.

“Come on! Let’s get outta here, gotta be something fun to do in this shitty town.”

He sees Sam’s mouth purse a second before he slams down the pencil. “Fine! But no cow tipping!”

Sam stands and pulls on his jacket, stalks out the door. Dean follows with a chuckle.

“Dude, that was one time and the damn thing nearly bit me. Let’s just go, drive around, anything.”

Dean pulls the door closed and locks it, gets into the car and looks at his brother. Sam’s frown is epic for the next 10 miles but eventually he chills, even cracks a smile before they get back. Dean feels like he can breathe as soon as they hit the road, enjoys the freedom and frivolity. He drives and drives, doesn’t care about wasting gas, doesn’t turn back towards town until he’s used up the entire midnight hour.


	3. No Smoking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, my headcanon is that Dean totally used to be a smoker.

Dean steps into the nicotine fog and gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark interior of the bar. The acrid smell makes Dean think of Sam. Reminds him, not for the first time since arriving in Klamath Falls how close he is to Stanford, how easy it would be to swing by and see his brother. He nixes the idea again, pushes aside the inevitable memories of Sam's departure and chooses to focus on happier times. Like the way Sam would look disapprovingly at him when he lit up as soon as Dad roared off from the motel, getting his first hit in 48 hours because they've all been cooped up in a double room or in the car. Or the innocent fascination on his brother's face the first time he saw Dean smoke, and Dean's refusal to let Sam ever try for himself. Dean kicked the habit years ago, and it was only for about a year when he was sixteen. Dad would have kicked his ass if he'd known, not because Dean was too young, or because it was unhealthy, simply because they couldn't afford such a habit – not when alcohol was considered medicine, disinfectant and therapy all in one. Dean smiles at the thought, content that the old man is back in Wyoming while Dean hunts solo in southern Oregon.

He saunters up to the bar, squeezing in between a middle-aged woman whose tits are spilling out of her dress as much as her ass is spilling over the edges of the barstool, and a rough-looking gent dressed too similarly to Dean for comfort, but he's got a cigarette dangling from his lip and the smoke wafts in Dean's direction. He takes a deep lungful of the second-hand pollution and waves down the bartender.

Beer in hand Dean finds an empty booth at the back, in the dark, and watches the crowd. He didn't pick this place for it's ambience. After rolling into town and checking into the cheapest motel he could find, he hit up the local PD, spent a few hours canvassing and speaking to witnesses, then he'd had to begrudgingly take to the library for research. Until it closed a 6pm, at which point he'd retreated back to his motel with a bag of greasy take-out and spent the next four hours and change staring at his computer screen until he went cross-eyed. Too jazzed to sleep he decided to check the unimaginatively named Mikey's Bar where the missing dudes had been regulars. All three were late-twenties, single, and had nothing else but this charming little watering hole in common.

So far he hasn't figured out exactly what he's hunting, but figures he might glean more knowledge by coming here, might even catch the attention of whatever it is he's hunting and expedite the process of killing it. He's close enough to fitting the profile, if a bit on the young side. Dean knows he's still baby-faced, wears the scruff and a slight sneer to convince people he's actually old enough to drink; has perfected a swagger that conveys the perfect mix of confidence and cockiness. It not only charms the ladies, it also helps him blend into places like this. Dive bars have been his second home since he was old enough to pass for 21. He's half way to thirty now and still he occasionally gets a sideward glance from bartenders and bouncers.

One beer becomes two, two becomes four, and so it goes as the time passes and nothing jumps out at him. Finally, Dean admits to himself that he has to get some help. He steps outside, moves away from the traffic of patrons coming and going and dials Dad's number. He knows Dad will be awake, only hopes the old man's not ass-deep in ghouls.

Dad picks up after the third ring. “Dean, you okay?”

“Yeah, Dad. Need some info on succubi. Got your journal handy?”

He hears rustling, the groan of boxsprings. Perhaps Dad was sleeping after all.

“Shoot.” Dad finally says.

“Got three missing dudes, all late twenties, all regulars at this dive. It's gotta be the hunting grounds but I can't get a handle on what kinda beastie it is.”

The sound of pages being turned precedes Dad's voice. “Any bodies?”

“Not yet.”

More pages moving, protracted silence, and then, “Succubi feed and move on. How many days since the first guy went missing?”

“Eight. I hauled ass from Utah as soon as I found the article.”

Dad grunts in consideration, ignoring Dean's diligence and turning more pages in his journal. Dean thinks he hears the sound of liquid sloshing, wonders how much Dad had to drink to pass out tonight. That thought is interrupted by the answer to his query.

“Sounds more like a vetala. They feed over several days, generally somewhere secluded. Bodies might not be found for weeks after they move on. Silver knife to the heart kills it. But they inject venom that'll knock you on your ass, so don't get bit.”

“Thanks,” Dean says but the line is dead before he can finish the word. He tries not to feel the disappointment, the sting of Dad's dismissal – it gets harder each time. He hangs up, looks at the digital clock on the front of his flip-phone – 12.03. He sighs.

A burly guy in a leather jacket steps outside, followed by a petite brunette in a dress that shows off more than it hides. Dean approves. She smiles coquettishly up at him and her laugh drifts over to where Dean is standing. As does the smoke from both their cigarettes as leather jacket dude lights one for her and then himself. The snap of the zippo closing and the smell combine to awaken old memories Dean thought he'd forgotten.

Another seductive laugh from the brunette pulls him out of his reverie and his attention back to the couple a few yards away. She loops her arm through her date's and as they turn to leave his face is illuminated by the street lamp. It's the guy from the bar. He's about the right age, same general appearance, size and build. Dean looks closer at both of them, hunter senses piqued. The chick most definitely looks like a hooker, and this dude looks too similar to the other missing dudes for it to be a coincidence. Dean may just have hit pay dirt.

He follows slyly as they wander off through the lot, affecting an intoxicated amble lest he be made and the guy feel like picking a fight. They get into a beat up Honda and Dean pulls out onto the road soon after they do, following them around the corner and into the night.


	4. The Cold Others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My idea for the night Sam left for Stanford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited and re-edited this one about 4 million times now. Still not totally happy with it, but I really want to get something new posted so here you go. Enjoy :)

It's almost midnight. They've been on the road for just over an hour – since Dad banged on their door and hollered at them to _Pack up, we leave in 10!_ \- following his taillights along winding, tree-lined blacktop, going 15 over the speed limit.

The silence in the Impala is painfully tense. Dean hasn't looked at Sam since they hit the road. Sam's been racking his brain for a way to make Dean understand. Dad's reaction is less important, and though he knows John will be pissed Sam's not sure he cares any longer, or that he ever did; because the piece of paper in his pocket is burning a hole into his flesh with its weight and consequence.

To say Dean hadn't taken the news of Sam's admittance to Stanford well is an understatement. Sam didn't miss the pride that flashed across his face before the disappointment and inevitable anger. Dean's been stewing in that surliness since they left Bartlesville, and for every mile they drive further east, Sam loses his nerve, along with his easy escape. The desperation to get away from his family isn't new, the ticket out only makes it more acute, more urgent.

Dean's phone rings which makes Sam flinch, but his brother's voice is eerily normal as he repeats 'Yessir' over and over.

“We're heading to Kentucky,” he says after hanging up. The attitude is back, voice cutting like a razor. “Dad's got a lead on some strange deaths, he wants you to research while we hit the morgue.”

If Sam wasn't so keyed into Dean's mood, he'd roll his eyes and sigh petulantly. He can quote monster lore backwards and forwards, spout obscure facts about all kinds of myths and legends like others show off with mundane trivia; because Dad always wants him to stay safe and hit the books. Yet he's still expected to be a competent soldier like Dean. It pisses him off, and so does the easy dismissal of his revelation, which turns unease to exasperation.

“Call Dad back, tell him to pull over,” he bites out.

Dean ignores him.

“Call him back,” Sam says louder.

His brother speeds up the car instead of complying. That warms the years-long resentment curling in Sam's gut, flames the rage that it's turning into. Why do Dean and his father both have to be so goddamn stubborn?

Sam takes a steadying breath, pushes down the rancor and speaks quietly.

“I'm sorry this is hard for you... But you know I never wanted this life. I've always wanted normal.”

Dean's eyes slide to him in the dark then back to the road. His mouth is set in a hard line, defiantly pissed in that way only he can do. How the hell is Sam supposed to get through to him? The brother he thought he knew so well.

“I love you man, but I feel like I can’t breathe, and... I don’t even really understand why we’re doing this, why we’re following Dad’s orders and blindly exacting his vengeance. After everything I've been told about Mom, she never would have wanted this for us.”

Something in that outpouring must hit a nerve because he espies tears in Dean's eyes which are hastily blinked away. Outrage or despair? Either way, Dean pulls out his phone and hits the redial button.

Finally they're stopped on the side of some godforsaken stretch of crumbling pavement, and John is marching towards them, face saying loud and clear that this better be important.

“What the hell is going on? We have a long drive!”

“Dad-”

Dean takes hold of Sam's arm, trying like always to referee their arguments. Sam pulls away roughly; Dad's anger means nothing compared to Dean's pain, but even that won't deter him now.

“I'm not going to Kentucky.” Sam steps closer to his father, resists the urge to intimidate with the few inches of extra height he has on the man. “I'm going to college.”

His voice is calm, affable, and John's brows draw together as confusion mixes with the anger.

“Sam,” he begins incredulously, then sets his jaw and a hardened stare on his youngest son. “How are you going to pay for it? How are you going to get there?” Now John sounds like he's playing along with some sick joke.

Sam jerks the paper from his pocket, unfolds it and shoves it in his father's face. “Full scholarship to Stanford,” he says, more than a little proudly. His composure is fading fast as his mind reels with all the hurtful things he could throw at his old man in this moment. He settles on the matter at hand, on his desire to leave rather than the myriad bitter reasons why. He pulls the paper back and John watches the sacred page fall to Sam's side, clutched tightly in his trembling fist. “I never wanted to hunt, Dad. You know that.”

“You have a duty to this family.” John's words sound hollow, repetitive bullshit that Sam began questioning long before he even fully understood what that duty entailed.

“All that studying you thought was less important than learning to shoot, or survive in the woods... That's my chance to have a normal life. A better life! And I will walk to California if I have to.”

“We're the only ones who can keep you safe.”

“You and Dean can hunt just fine without me.”

“You have a duty to help save people-”

“Screw this...” Sam turns his back on John, who rants louder, and retrieves his duffel from the Impala, slings his backpack over one shoulder. He looks at Dean, but his brother is staring off towards the trees, eyes wet and lip beginning to tremble though he's trying his best to hide it.

Sam turns one last bitter look on his father, who falls silent; sees the challenge there and accepts. John still doesn't think he'll do it. Screw him. Just as he turns to walk back the way they've come John speaks again. The words carry a finality that fills Sam with equal parts fury and heartbreak.

“If you really want to leave, then don’t come back.”


	5. Screw You, Phil Collins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hear this song weekly on the radio at work and, like I wrote into the fic, always thought it was creepy (though I do like it). This one came out of random musings after hearing the song at work for the millionth time.

In The Air Tonight is a creepy song. For years Dean legit thought it was about a serial killer. It’d come on the radio while they were on some desolate stretch of blacktop at quarter past three in the morning and he’d get shivers.

When he was a kid he’d demand that Dad change the channel, but his old man liked it because it reminded him of Mary. Even Sam, the little traitor, liked it. And when he was small Dad tried to keep him happy; while Dean had to follow Dad's orders. So after years of being thoroughly weirded out by the song, Dean also began to associate it with the plethora of issues he had regarding his place in this family. He’d never admit it out loud, but every time he heard it, it made him feel morose.

That’s exactly the headspace Dean finds himself in one early fall evening about fifty miles outside of New Haven. A cold wind has been blowing all afternoon, sending fallen leaves scuttling across the road like beetles. The job had been easy, a standard haunting, done and dusted in a couple of days because the young socialite simply handed over the locket with her grandmother’s baby teeth, thoroughly glad to be rid of it. That part's worth celebrating. It's the location that's left him feeling out of sorts and thinking of things he’d rather not remember; seeing all the flyers for fraternity mixers, and sorority charity drives. Even clear across the country it makes Dean think of his brother.

Sam has been gone for a year. Dean has only spoken with him a handful of times in all those months; and Dad, whenever he’s around, hasn’t mentioned his youngest son at all. Dean knows there's a level of fear behind his father’s ire, which he gets, but he’d wager that the abandonment he feels is all his own.

The road winds up, down and around, taking him through thickets of increasingly barren trees that flash fire in his headlights. The night is clear and a waxing moon keeps watch as he drives. Connecticut bleeds into New York state, which bleeds into Pennsylvania, and for a long while Dean manages to just focus on the miles of asphalt rolling beneath his tires - until a sign for State College catches his eye. The next several miles turn from pleasant drive to white-knuckle rally as he runs from all the reminders of why his brother isn’t there.

He wonders if Sam’s enjoying those mixers, or charity drives, or whatever mindless crap all those college kids get up to, thinking they know something about the world. Cold creeps up his spine, a sense of foreboding. Stupid, really, because Sam’s fine and plenty capable of taking care of himself. But it’s a feeling that won’t be denied and so Dean pulls over at the first lonely gas station he finds.

Sam’s number is dialed from memory. One ring, two, four... After twenty Dean stops counting; the call will cut off soon anyway. He hangs up before the inevitable rejection, sits in the rapidly cooling Impala, watches the odd car pull in, gas up, then leave again to points unknown.

His eyes are wet with unwanted emotion, his chest aches around the emptiness Sam left behind; and his head echoes with that infernal song.

The phone rings and Dean almost jumps out of his skin. But it’s Dad’s number on the caller ID and that only reinforces his loneliness. He doesn’t want to talk to his father, doesn’t want to meet him in Ohio, doesn’t want to be backup on another case. Every fibre of his being wants to steer the car towards California and bring his brother home. Finally he answers.

“Dean, how far out are you?” Dad’s voice is gruff.

“Almost hit Pittsburgh, I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Well, move your ass. We’ve got work to do before the morgue opens.”

The call cuts off and Dean feels that pain in his chest again. He wants to tell Dad that he hasn’t slept in 48 hours. That he’s just wrapped up a case and needs to rest. He wants to ask why he won’t speak Sam’s name, just refers to him as ‘your brother’ on the few occasions he can’t avoid it. Most of all Dean wants them all to be together again, and for Dad and Sam to bury the hatchet.

Instead he rams Black Album into the cassette deck, puts the car in drive and gets back on the road.


End file.
